The Road to Africa
by 1 Jagged Outlaw Queen
Summary: The CSI series finale will air soon and I'm positive that the shows writers are going to muck it up. Since being made aware, bit and pieces of this tale have begun to haunt me. If I want peace, then I must write, and I have been encouraged to do so by a fan of another work in progress. Please read my author's note for further details.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note** : As some of you know, I have recently resumed work on an old piece of writing that I started a number of years ago. That project, now entitled Origins, is still currently unfinished. Fret not, I have every intention of bringing it to a close, but since receiving word that both Dr. Gil Grissom and Dr. Heather Kessler are slated to return to the screen on September 27, 2015 for the series finale of CSI, the bones of yet another story have begun to rattle noisily around in my mind and I've become quite consumed with them. So much so that it's interfering with all of my other creative work here on this site.

It seems there's not a moment in the day when Grissom and his lady are not on my mind. While I'm washing dishes, while I'm walking the dog, while I'm cooking the dinner, or tending to my nieces and nephew, and even while I'm standing in my backyard lamenting over the parched condition of my plants and vegetables; wishing it would rain. Water! My garden needs water! Come on, rain already! Water is the elixir of life! Yes, even then they're on my mind. If they aren't deep in conversation over afternoon tea in Heather's front parlor, than they are up to other things in far more exotic locales, and some of them are fairly salacious. What's more, they're getting quite noisy about it. Ordinarily I wouldn't dream of working on two stories of the same time, let alone three, but as is usually the case with me, I have no clue how this story is going to end as of yet. The only thing I do know for certain… is that the only way I'm going to have any peace from the commotion in my head is if I start writing. So here goes!

Also, please be advised, this story will begin set early in the year 2009. I will follow the TV show CSI up through the point where the episode titled "Leave out all the Rest" was aired. Beyond that point, I will do my best to weave my story loosely in with the events of the show, though there will be some significant differences. You should not view this as an extension of any of my previous work regarding Heather and Gil. This is not a continuation of the story Origins. This story will stand alone.

 **Disclaimer** : The characters within this story are not my own. I do not own them, nor do I profit from them in any way… unless you count my own personal enjoyment in the telling of the story that follows as compensation.

* * *

 **The Road to Africa**

 **Chapter one**

In Las Vegas on the first Monday in December 2008 at just after 9:00 PM, the heels of her boots tip tap noticeably as she crosses the polished floor of the crowded main lobby at UNLV. People, some of them faculty and some of them her fellow students, are compelled to turn and watch as the captivating brunette makes her way to the exit with purpose in her stride. She's not in a hurry, but she won't linger either. There is simply very little this woman does without deliberation, and right now, her focus is on leaving this place. She's done here for tonight. It's time to go home. She needs a meal and few hours of study time before bed. And she plans to be asleep before midnight. Allison is with her all day tomorrow and she wants to be well rested for her soon-to-be four-year-old granddaughter's visit

A few of the observers in the lobby lower their voices and step closer to each other in tepid attempts at discretion. They try unsuccessfully to shield their hands and mouths from view as they point and whisper…

"Hey I know her." or "I've heard of her." or, "Isn't she the one who… Yeah, she's the one who use to run that fetish house." Still another hushed voice offers, "My uncle says he went there once." One young male replies, "That's creepy!" And the one with the uncle counters "Dude, she's creepy! I wonder what's wrong with her; something bad must have happened to her. Hey don't look at me like that, I'm just saying, there has to be something…nobody normal does something like that." In response, an independent young female voice hisses more discreetly than the rest. "Shut up Bobby. You don't know what you're talking about. She's in my Aberrant Psych class. She's quiet, doesn't say too much, but she's wicked smart … Could probably teach the class better than the prof … and she's nice too. Just because a woman might happen to thoroughly enjoy sex does not automatically mean that there is something wrong with her! It does not make her creepy. Of course… you might know that if you actually had sex once in a while, moron!"

Without turning, or giving a single indication that she heard any of this, Heather Kessler can't help but smile at the young girl's remark as she extracts her keys from the pocket of her leather jacket and slides the key to her front door between her index and middle finger. Ready to use it as a weapon if need be as she crosses the well-lit college parking lot on the way to her waiting vehicle.

She muses silently as she pushes through the double doors and descends the wide shallow steps in front of the building.

Most people, even most young people, are predictably boring in their assumptions and accusations. The girl however, the girl has potential.

Even without turning to confirm her identity, Heather had recognized the girl's voice at once. She doesn't know the girl's name but, in the classroom, she's row six, seat eight; second from the end. The girl always sits in the same seat. So, like most people, she's a creature of habit. She's picked out her comfort zone in the classroom, and she sticks with it. But she's bright. She's never late to class. She's always quiet during lecture, concentrates on what is being said, is a prolific note taker, isn't afraid to ask questions, challenge what is being said, or offer an alternative point of view. She participates passionately in class discussions. She allows people she adamantly disagrees with to speak their mind without interrupting them. She's open to new ideas, but at the same time she makes up her own mind about things, and isn't easily swayed once she does. Someone taught this girl how to stand on her own two feet and think for herself.

A hint of melancholy finds its way into Heather's smile as she approaches her Mercedes. Still a safe distance away, she automatically checks the ground below the vehicle as well as the backseat looking for anyone who doesn't belong there. Finding no cause for alarm, she silently releases the thought, " _I miss you Zoë_. _She reminds me of you."_

When close enough, she beeps the lock, and stows the black leather tote with her heavy textbooks in it on the floor behind the driver's seat before removing her jacket and tossing in on the back seat.

As she opens her driver's door and slides in behind the wheel, the girl from the lobby makes eye contact and approaches but then something else seems to catch her attention. She stops walking, leans backwards, craning her neck to one side as though peering into a vehicle in the row of parked cars behind the row where Heather is parked. The girl backs up slowly, approaches a blue late model Camry with uncertainty and taps hesitantly on the driver's window. Heather assumes she misinterpreted the girl's approach and begins to close her door until she hears the girl ask, "Hey, hey pal, are you okay in there?"

Heather quickly steps out of her SUV, moving hurriedly in the girl's direction, calling out just in time to halt her next action.

"Stop!" she orders in a calm but commanding voice. "Don't do that. Do you know him?"

The girl looks up, startled. "No, I don't."

"Then don't open his car door… especially not alone, at night, on a college campus."

An odd expression crosses the girl's face when she realizes she's being looked after, as though she doesn't know whether to frown or smile. "But…" she starts slowly; hesitantly, "but I think something's wrong. It looks like he's passed out."

More quietly, Heather answers. "That doesn't matter. He could be faking."

Sudden awareness of potential danger floods the girl's face… "So some nice young college girl will come along and check on him… I'm an idiot. I didn't even think… What a dope."

Heather smiles as she comes up beside the Camry. "You aren't an idiot." She leans over slightly and peers in at the young man slouched, almost drunkenly, in the driver's seat.

One look raises goose flesh on the back of her shoulders and neck. Her intuition begins to hum with a silent message she doesn't want to receive."

 _He's dead._

She tries to push the thought aside. She silently reminds herself not to jump to conclusions as she searches her pockets, and comes up with a lace handkerchief. Before opening the door, she pauses to look at him once again. His eyes are open, but his gaze is unfixed. If he does see anything at all, it's nothing in this world. Her intuition repeats…

 _He's dead_.

The girl beside Heather is unconsciously chewing on her lower lip; a nagging uncertainty is already visible in her round hazel eyes. On some level, the girl is already aware of the truth, but Heather doubts that she's fully conscious of it.

In a soothing, yet resolute voice Heather states "I want you to step back. Don't touch the car. I'll do this."

The girl nods mutely and then adds hopefully, "Maybe he's just drunk; you know frat boys."

Heather doesn't say anything as she carefully uses her handkerchief and only two fingers to test the door handle. When the door opens easily, the young girl involuntarily takes another step back, increasing the distance between herself and the young man in the car. Heather kneels for a better look, being careful not to touch anything she doesn't absolutely have to. Again, with only two fingers, she reaches around to the side of his neck opposite her to check for a pulse. Her touch is met by cold metal coated in what was once warm and is now rapidly cooling, but still tacky blood. She carefully leans in a bit further, close enough to actually see the long handled screwdriver protruding from the right side of his neck. Just to be certain, she carefully checks the left carotid hoping for a faint but detectable rhythm. She isn't surprised when she finds none, but his body is still warm. He probably hasn't been here long. The desert air is cold tonight. When she removes her hand, she discreetly wipes faint traces of congealed blood onto her handkerchief so as not to panic the young girl who can't see what is obviously a murder weapon from where she stands.

Heather rises to her feet slowly, starts to close the car door, and then thinks better of it; catching herself just in time. She turns her back on the body of the young man; shielding him from the girl's view and extracts her cell phone from the pocket the handkerchief wasn't in.

Her classmate eyes her; still hoping. "You calling for an ambulance?"

"No. First I'm calling campus security. Then I'm calling the crime lab."

"Oh." The girl breathes solemnly as the last bit of hope drains from her face. She stands as still as a statue and watches Heather dial.

As she waits for her first call to be answered, Heather takes the girl by the hand and leads her away from the Camry making sure not to stop until they cross the lot. Heather gently backs her up against the rear bumper of her Mercedes and the girl instantly sags; her knees collapsing. She seems to deflate; optimism running out of her like air from a leaky balloon.

Heather tells campus security what they need to know and hangs up; immediately dialing again; this time, a much more familiar number. Again, she repeats all the necessary information, leaves her name and contact information and hangs up. When the second call ends, she looks up to find the girl watching her, and for the first time, she sees genuine panic rising in the girl's eyes.

"Take it easy. Just concentrate on breathing. Breathe in, and push it out again slowly."

She does as she's told and then simply stares at Heather for a long moment before she says unevenly, "There's… There's a dead body… Over there! Oh my God. Oh… My… He's dead. Fuck! That's messed up!"

"It certainly is." Heather says dryly. Then, more compassionately, she reminds of the girl. "Just breathe."

She gulps air.

Heather coaches patiently. "Slow. Easy. Relax. In through your nose, and out slowly through your mouth. You're safe. The dead can't hurt you. He can't hurt anyone anymore. It's the living you should be wary of."

The girl inhales more slowly and nods dutifully. She raises a curious eyebrow and points. "That doesn't bother you?"

"Of course it does. Murder should bother everyone."

"You don't look bothered."

"What you see, and what I feel are two very different things."

The girl squints, but then nods and shrugs. "Shouldn't we at least close the car door? You know, give him some privacy, or something."

"No, he doesn't care about privacy anymore, and we shouldn't disturb the scene any more than we already have. Campus security will come first and then the police and crime scene analysts. They'll take care of him."

"Okay. Then what?" the girl questions; getting a grip by focusing on the details.

"You tell them what you know. What you saw. What you did."

She nods again and repeats, "Then what?"

"You go home, and hug your mom or your dad."

A flash of uncertainty clouds her pretty eyes and then mingles with anger. "And what, life just goes on without him?"

Heather nods sadly. "Yes, it will… But that doesn't mean that your life will be the same as it was before tonight."

Anger flashes again, hardening the soft planes of her face. "Good! It shouldn't be."

"No. It shouldn't."

The young girl opens her mouth to speak, and then a new thought distracts her. She hesitates briefly before asking, "You actually know the number for the Las Vegas crime lab?"

"I have a close friend who works there."

The girl nods yet again; curiosity evident in her eyes, but she thinks better of asking nosy questions. Instead, she offers her hand to shake. I'm Amelia."

"And I'm Heather. I wish it had been under better circumstances, but it's nice to make your acquaintance, Amelia"


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note** : Before you read this chapter I just want to say for the record, I really do adore Jim Brass. I think he's a good man and a great cop. It's just that watching he and Heather have one of their dust ups always makes me giggle. They're cute… in a perverse sort of way. If he ever decided to give her break, or she him, for that matter; I think they might actually be friends. But that's just my take on it.

* * *

 **The Road to Africa**

 **Chapter two**

Cool metal and automotive glass at her back make her aware of her slouched posture and her knees which, rather annoyingly, seem to be quivering slightly. Choosing to lean casually, rather than slouch, Amelia straightens up a bit; not feeling quite so deflated by the present circumstances as she did only moments ago.

She can feel a kind of quiet strength emanating from the striking woman before her, and although it doesn't completely take away the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, it helps her considerably. She draws comfort from it almost as if Heather is voluntarily sharing it with her.

So she leans casually against the rear bumper of Heather's Mercedes M class; her slender arms folded over her chest in an attempt to ward off the chill that seems to be invading her core. She notices Heather watching her closely and she feels a small flicker of panic rise when the brunette steps away momentarily without comment.

Amelia peers around the side of the vehicle when she hears a car door open and a second later Heather returns and quietly drapes her own leather jacket around the girl's shoulders.

Amelia smiles and gratefully tucks her arms inside the jacket. "Thanks; you sure you don't want it? I thought it was just me, but I guess it's cold out here."

Heather shakes her head. "I'm fine. You have goose bumps on your arms."

Surprised, Amelia extracts an arm from inside the jacket and glances down at it confirming what has just been said before snuggling more deeply into the heavy garment with its warm inner lining "I didn't even notice." She chuckles self-consciously.

They are face to face and Amelia becomes aware that Heather's position in front of her is at least partially blocking her view of the car across the lot and it's deceased occupant. She doubts this is unintentional. She doubts this woman does anything by accident. Ordinarily, a virtual stranger playing mother-hen would irritate Amelia. Ordinarily, she doesn't need to be looked after. She's fairly self- sufficient, she knows, when compared to her peers, but tonight she's grateful for the shoulder Heather somehow effortlessly manages to offer without smothering her.

Amelia does not feel the need to maintain eye contact. Instead; she looks over Heather's shoulder, watching quietly as campus security and the first wave of responding police string yellow tape around a generous section of UNLV's main parking lot.

One thirty-something campus security rent-a-cop in particular has the lion's share of the girl's attention. She watches him gaze uneasily at what's inside the dark blue Camry despite her partially obstructed view. She watches his pallor go a sickly jaundice yellow and notices the overactive muscles in his neck; no doubt working against a rising tide of bile.

For Heather's ears only she whispers, "He's gonna hurl."

Heather barely glances over her shoulder. She doesn't need more than the briefest of glances to know that Amelia is right. "Let's just hope he doesn't do it that close to the car."

Mere seconds pass and the unseasoned security officer clumsily lurches only a few steps away from the vehicle in question before regurgitating his last meal.

Heather doesn't bother glancing over her shoulder a second time. She doesn't need to. Instead she sighs, "The boys and girls from swing shift are not going to be happy." She whispers; more to herself than to Amelia.

Amelia raises a curious eyebrow, but before she can ask for more information a police cruiser pulls to a stop a few yards away from them. A middle aged cop, broad in the shoulders and belly with close cropped hair opens the driver's door and exits the vehicle. With an enthusiastic, if less than friendly, tone in his voice, he reminds Amelia of a surly bulldog – squat and beefy in build; noisy, with a cantankerous and occasionally unpleasant temperament – when he says, "Well, well, well Lady Heather." He rubs his palms together as he approaches and Amelia glances at Heather with an unspoken question in her eyes.

Heather responds as if she's bored as she turns her gaze to the man. She matches his eager yet less than friendly greeting with an icy one of her own. "Captain Brass."

Another vehicle arrives and when the driver steps out, Amelia could swear she sees the faintest flicker of surprise in her classmate's green eyes. Surprise… and something else… Something… visceral, but the flicker is gone; extinguished and promptly hidden away before she has time to fully identify it, much less question it.

The one called Brass continues; undeterred by Heather's lack of warmth. "Anybody ever tell you you're like a bad penny? You just keep turning up. What have you gotten yourself into this time?"

Still bored, Heather returns fire. "Anyone ever tell you that you're shortsighted, narrow minded, easily lead, and generally disagreeable?"

Brass splays a big hand across his chest; his voice dripping sarcasm as he says, "I'm wounded."

"I'm sure."

Amelia guesses that they are old rivals. This little sparring match seems to be comfortable in its familiarity, even if unpleasant, for the both of them.

The newcomer with the handsome face is probably 50-something and he's bearded. As if this little exchange is nothing new to him either, he grimaces but his tired blue eyes twinkle with something that can't quite be called mirth as he interrupts their tete-a-tete.

"Play nice kids." He says drolly upon approach. "Don't make me send you to your rooms."

Amelia watches the corners of Heather's mouth turn upward in the slightest of smiles and without any fear of recrimination, she announces as she steps nearer to him, "I'll go happily." When they stand shoulder to shoulder she drops her voice to a whisper and flirtatiously adds, "Care to join me?"

Although Heather's quiet question could have only partially registered with his ears, Amelia watches Brass roll his eyes and scowl in response to what he thinks she might have said as well as in response to, the pair's body language. Amelia fears that the cop may be sick himself at any moment. She also notices that the other man gives Heather a somewhat stern look, but there isn't the slightest hint of objection to her question in his voice when he responds with a simple, friendly, "Hello Heather."

With a satisfied smile; she replies in turn. "Hello Gil."

Brass gestures to the scene around them, uncomfortable with his awareness of the almost palpable attraction that hums between the two friends. He decides it's time to redirect their attention; get down to business. "Who found the victim?"

Heather gestures toward the young girl as she answers. "Amelia did initially. I was here in parking lot and I was concerned about her so I walked over. Shortly after, I placed the call that brought you out."

Brass raises an eyebrow. "And what brings you out?"

"Amelia and I are classmates. Tonight's last classes let out a short time before I phoned."

"You're taking classes? Oh right." Tongue in cheek, Brass makes the tsking sound. "Grissom mentioned something about you getting a Master's degree last year. No more Dominion. Sex therapy?"

"Yes, that was last year. I'm working toward my doctorate now."

"Really? From Lady Heather to Dr. Heather?"

Amelia notices that while the cop sneers, the other man receives this news with something akin to quiet approval, and he doesn't laugh, but she senses that he might want to when Heather answers calmly. "Yes, drop by sometime. I'll schedule you an appointment."

No longer interested in the insults, and before Brass can say something predictably snarky, Heather returns her attention to her classmate and the cop's more agreeable companion.

"Amelia this is Dr. Gil Grissom, night shift supervisor at the crime lab. Gil, what are you doing here? It's not midnight yet. I was expecting someone I wouldn't recognize; someone from swing shift."

"Swing shift is short staffed. I'm pitching in."

He doesn't have to voice his discontent over the fact for Heather to be aware of it. His tired eyes and the subtle deepening of the lines around them speak volumes to her, and she worries about him as he extends his hand to the young woman with her.

She shakes the hand he offers. "Amelia Rose."

The strength of her grip catches him slightly by surprise as he makes a cursory inspection. She's tall and lean with well-defined musculature. She'd be a good two inches taller than Heather if it weren't for the heels. She's an athlete; a runner maybe. He tips his head to one side and inquires politely, "Rose, like the flower?"

"By any other name I'd smell just as sweet." She tries to smile kindly; as though she's used to, and weary of, this old joke where her surname is concerned.

"And you found the victim?"

"It's more precise to say I saw him, as opposed to found him; but yes." She glances at the Camry uncomfortably. "Heather was right here. Thank goodness. I didn't have to touch him. She wouldn't let me… did it for me… so I wouldn't have to."

Grissom turns his gaze back to Heather. "You touched him?"

She nods. "Briefly, and only to confirm that he did not have a pulse. I knew he was dead before I opened the car door, but confirmation was best. If I had been wrong about his condition, I would've called for a medic ahead of you. I hoped I was wrong. I hoped he was only circling the drain, not down it." She sighs regretfully. "Grissom, I was very careful, but I'm afraid, not careful enough."

Grissom raises an eyebrow.

"I did not see the murder weapon at first. I'm afraid I came into contact with it while checking for a pulse. I may have left a print, or contaminated the scene in some other way. I apologize if I've made things difficult for you. I only wanted to be absolutely certain there was nothing that could be done for him."

Grissom frowns but nods and decides to withhold comment until he has a better understanding of things.

Brass is quick to duck under the crime scene tape to go and have a better look. He approaches the vehicle from the right; the way a passenger would, leans over and peers in.

"You wanna tell me how you didn't see this honkin' big screwdriver sticking out of the side of his neck?"

Confused by the question at first, Heather turns and gazes at where Brass is in relation to the car. With mild annoyance in her voice she answers, "My approach was from the left… driver's side door… The one that's already open."

"Was it open when you found him?"

"No. I opened it myself. It was unlocked. I barely touched it. Used a handkerchief. Didn't touch anything I didn't have to… except for my unintentional contact with the screwdriver."

"Are you certain of that Heather?" Grissom asks patiently.

She nods. "I am."

Rising to his full height beside the car Brass says, "Looks like the weapon punctured the carotid. Should be more blood… Unless the tool acted like a plug. Putting its own pressure on the wound it created, but I'm still not certain how you missed this Lady Heather. The screwdriver is located towards the back of the neck, positioned at a back to front angle."

Heather nods her head with exasperation. "Yes, as if whoever stabbed him was sitting in the back seat; reaching forward."

"Oh really? Funny how you know that."

Heather sighs. "I know that because I'm neither ignorant, nor blind."

Brass smirks. "You sure about that? The way this thing is positioned, it should've been plainly visible even from the driver's side door."

For the first time since stepping away from the car, nearly half an hour ago, Heather deliberately looks at the body of the young man in the driver's seat. She frowns, squints, and moves closer until she feels the light pressure of Grissom's hand on her arm. Without being told, she knows he's trying to preserve whatever integrity is left in the crime scene.

"Sorry, I'll stay here… But that's not right. He wasn't like that. I haven't looked at him since coming back over here. Somebody's moved him."

Brass grunts. "Somebody moved him… or you moved him?"

Heather shakes her head adamantly and speaks her next words concisely, as if speaking more clearly, more slowly, will somehow make it easier for Brass to understand.

"I did not move him. I barely touched him, and I tried to do even that with extreme care. When Amelia and I found him, he was slouched down in the seat, like he was sleeping off a bender, with his head against the headrest. He was not leaning forward with his face against the steering wheel. His back was not plainly visible. I didn't see the screwdriver… not until I went looking for it, after I checked for a pulse and brushed up against it. I was crouched on my heels beside the driver's door and I had to lean in further to see the screwdriver."

Amelia nods. "I was here. She didn't move him. She tried really hard not to disturb anything. She hardly touched him at all Mr. Brass… I'm sorry… I meant no disrespect, Captain. I wanted to close the door for him. You know, so people wouldn't be walking by gawking at him. Heather said no. She said it was better not to change things any more than we already had. She told me to back up, stand away from the car. Then she brought me over here after she checked on him…. I did tap on the window… earlier, when I thought he might just be asleep or passed out. I didn't see the screwdriver in his neck. That would've freaked me out. I didn't even know there was a screwdriver… until you guys got here. She didn't tell me about it." Amelia frowns, her brow furrowing deeply, and hugs herself as if she's cold or nauseous.

Heather places a comforting arm around the girl's shoulders.

Grissom recalls that Amelia did look a little less anxious before the mention of the screwdriver. She's having a hard time with this, but she's holding herself together fairly well. He raises his voice to a notch above its normal level. "Okay, which one of you guys moved the body?"

A young campus security officer, who looks barely old enough to of graduated college himself, tentatively raises his hand. "Sorry Sir. I only wanted to make certain he was really gone."

"Didn't Ms. Kessler tell you that?"

"Yes Sir, she did. I just wanted to double check. It's my fault. I moved him. Not her."

Before stepping away, Grissom turns his gaze to Heather. "You'll stay here?"

She nods her agreement, and he trots away to go and have his own look at things.

Once kneeling in a similar position to the one Heather had taken, he eases the body back into an approximation of its original position. He's quiet for several seconds, making lightning fast mental notes about the car's interior, before he asks, "Was his seatbelt on or off?"

"Uncomfortably, the campus security guard admits, "Gosh, I don't know."

Grissom glances back over his shoulder and resists the urge to glare at the young man. "Well, do you remember unbuckling his seatbelt when you checked on him?"

The guy shrugs; obviously embarrassed. Hesitantly, he admits, "I don't know whether I did or not."

Heather is already shaking her head when Grissom turns his attention to her once more. "The buckle of his seat belt was pulled halfway across his body, resting between his thumb and forefinger as if he'd been in the process of buckling up when whatever happened… happened. Based on what I saw, I think it's plausible that he didn't know he wasn't alone in the vehicle. I think somebody caught him by surprise. He had enough time to get in, to close the door, and put the key in the ignition. He was buckling up before starting the engine."

Brass snags a rubber glove from Grissom's hand and holds it between his fingers as he tests the back door on the driver's side. He smirks when the handle lifts. "It's unlocked… And, okay yeah, hers is a possible theory; but it could've happened just as easily the other way around. She could have it backwards. Maybe he drove up in the parking lot, and somebody got in before he could get out.

Heather smiles; knowing instinctually that he would just love to prove her wrong. "Maybe so, but I'm afraid that's less likely. The last class of the night was letting out to. It's much more plausible that he was going, not coming. Why come here minutes before the last class of the night lets out?"

"Who knows how long he was sitting out here. Could've been awhile."

She shakes her head again. "Somebody would've noticed. Amelia did."

"You didn't." Brass counters.

"No, I didn't." she admits; suddenly no longer quite as bored with their rivalry. "However, it's a cold night. He was still warm when I touched him. So, he hasn't been sitting out here for any significant length of time. It's a busy college campus. Whoever did this… and no matter how much you might like for it to be, it wasn't me…" She pauses to flash him a saccharine smile. "Whoever did this was probably lying in wait, tucked down out of sight in the back seat. It was probably quick and dirty, because they were gone before the mass exodus of students and faculty from the building."

Jim Brass flashes a wide grin. "Okay." He says, his snide tone losing some of its vinegar. "So what do you want, a job?"

"What? So you and I can do this on a nightly basis? No thank you. I'll pass."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note** : It seems this is all taking place approximately one month post LOATR.

* * *

 **The Road to Africa**

 **Chapter three**

Lap tops. cell phones, textbooks, pens, pencils, index cards, note pads, and highlighters are all scattered about Heather's dining room table; all of it within easy reach of the two females who sit opposite each other in silence going over the class syllabus and completing study-related tasks for this week's assignments. They sit together, but work as individuals; except for when one or the other has a question. The pot of tea and the empty salad bowl easily within Heather's reach are a stark contrast to the twizzles, and lightly salted peanuts floating in a bottle of coca cola near her companion. The younger of the two stops working for the fourth time in less than twenty minutes and gazes curiously at her new study buddy.

Jotting down notes that pertain to the last passage she read, Heather doesn't bother with eye contact, or even glance upward before she says "Amelia…"

Caught staring and mildly startled, the girl knocks one of her textbooks off the table involuntarily. "Huh, what?" she stammers uncomfortably and leans over to pick up the textbook from the floor in an effort to conceal the slight blush she can feel creeping up her neck into her face.

"Just ask." The slightest of smiles lifts the corners of Heather's mouth. "Preferably before you burst a blood vessel in your brain from the strain trying to contain your own curiosity."

Amelia thinks fast; scrambling for a safe question to take the place of the one that's really on her mind. "Why did you invite me over here tonight?" She gestures toward the large dining room around them.

Still not glancing up from her work Heather lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. "You seemed to need someplace to go. Why did you accept my offer?"

"Because I didn't want to be alone after what happened tonight. I could've gone back to my dorm room though. My roommate would have come in eventually." She says in a sour voice.

"Do you have family that lives in the Las Vegas area."

"I do. My mom lives here… But…" She pauses hesitantly. Normally she doesn't like to tell people her problems, but for some reason she finds herself wanting to open up; and the impulse worries her. She barely knows the woman across the table from her.

"Your mom lives here but… There's a rift between the two of you?"

Harsh laughter rises in her throat and erupts from her mouth. She shakes her head. "No, more like a chasm; one deep enough and wide enough to fit the Grand Canyon in with room left to spare."

Heather nods without comment.

"But you already knew that." She states flatly.

Again Heather nods silently.

"But how?"

"You're here. With someone you hardly know. You have a dorm room at the campus… Despite the fact that you just admitted your mother lives nearby. You are a reasonable practical-minded young woman. Surely living at home would be less expensive, and less chaotic than living with a roommate you don't like."

She tilts her head to one side thoughtfully. "Depends on what you mean when you say less expensive. If you just referring to the cost of college housing, then yes, it would be cheaper."

"But there are other costs; ones that have nothing to do with money?"

Amelia nods affirmatively and rubs her thumb roughly over the eraser on her pencil. "And it certainly isn't less chaotic… which makes it more than worth the cost."

"So, home is untenable?"

Amelia takes a sip from her soda before answering. "Heather, that's an understatement of colossal proportion."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Heather finally sets her note pad aside and lifts her gaze to the girl's face.

Amelia thinks it over and asks, "Is it okay if I say no?"

Heather raises an eyebrow, but gives her a slight nod anyway. "It's always okay to say no. Do you want to talk about the young man in the car?"

Amelia shakes her head adamantly. "I want… another piece of pizza."

Heather smiles warmly and tilts her head toward the kitchen door. "Help yourself."

"You want another?"

"No thank you."

"Anything else? I'll get it while I'm up."

"No. I'm done for the night. I'm good with my tea."

Amelia talks from the kitchen as she adds another two slices of pizza to her plate. "I don't know why you spent money on an extra-large pizza if you were only going to eat one slice. Now it will just go to waste. I can't eat this whole thing… at least not without making a total pig of myself."

"It won't go to waste. What you don't eat tonight, Allison will eat tomorrow."

"Who's Alison? Daughter?"

"Granddaughter." Heather can hear her punching buttons on the microwave.

Amelia's head appears in the doorway; the rest of her hidden from view. "Seriously? You have a granddaughter?"

Heather chuckles quietly. "She's almost four, and sometimes it still catches me by surprise."

Amelia shakes her head. "But… You're not old enough."

This time, laughter bubbles out of Heather. "Apparently, I am."

The microwave beeps; signaling the end of its reheating process and Amelia returns to her chair with her plate and a small supply of paper napkins tucked under it. "Sorry if that was rude. I didn't mean to be. It's just… wow! You don't look like any grandmother I've ever seen." She bites into the end of a piece of pizza and shrugs.

"I'll choose to take that as a compliment." Heather replies as she becomes aware that she's been sitting in the same position for far too long. She stands, and tilts her head from side to side stretching her neck and her back to relieve the tension there.

Amelia nods enthusiastically and holds a napkin to her mouth as she says, "You should."

With a new plate of food to keep her hands busy and to act as a buffer against the unpleasant topic she asks quietly, "What will happen to him now?"

"The young man in the car?" she asks, even though she doesn't really need the answer. She waits for Amelia to nod before continuing; giving her a way out of the conversation should she choose to end it.

"He, his car, and all of his possessions… at least the ones with him… will be processed for evidence. He will be identified, if he hasn't been already. There will be an autopsy. Relatives will be notified if possible. Once all possible evidence has been collected, he will be released for burial or cremation."

"Will they catch the one who killed him?"

"If possible. Grissom won't mark his death down as unsolved without turning over every possible rock; without shining a light into every dark shadow."

The mention of his name brings Amelia full circle; back around to what she'd truly been thinking about when they first began talking. She opens her mouth, and then closes it again; choosing not to voice her thoughts.

Heather raises an eyebrow and waits.

"No, forget it. "She waves her hand; as if clearing the air around her. "Not any of my business."

Heather tilts her head to one side and offers the girl the faintest of smiles. She sits back down in her chair, crosses her legs and laces her fingers together; resting her clasped hands around one knee. "Not currently."

Amelia squints. "Not currently?"

"The answer to the question you're trying to be polite enough not to ask… Not currently."

"Oh." Amelia smiles; not certain why she feels so comfortable. She's quite certain that this particular conversation with anyone else would prove to be embarrassing for her. "But in the past?"

"Yes, seven years ago. It was short lived; very brief. "

"Eww!" Disgust mars Amelia's pretty heart shaped face. "I hate it when it's brief!"

Heather raises an eyebrow, and then begins to chuckle quietly. "No, you've misunderstood me." She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. "That part wasn't brief. That part was… The rest of her thought fades away into a deeply satisfied smile

Understanding Heather's meaning as well as her need for at least a minimal amount of privacy, Amelia supplies an answer of her own; one she suspects might be adequate, "Nine and a half different kinds of hot?"

"Well, that's one way to put it." Heather nods affirmatively.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

Unconvinced, Amelia shakes her head; a wide smile gracing her face as she points theatrically in Heather's direction. "Something happened."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Uh hello, I was there tonight. I saw the two of you. A dead body less than 50 feet away, and even that didn't stop the two of you from wanting each other. You want each other like the people in Hell want cherry flavored snow cones."

Heather shrugs while she struggles to keep her quiet chuckle from becoming bold laughter. "And that means something happened?"

"Yes." Amelia announces with certainty. Otherwise, I'd be back in my dorm room right now, and he'd be sitting here in my place." She pauses to study her hostess carefully. After several long seconds she says quietly, "He's afraid of you."

Heather shakes her head resolutely. "No, you got that one wrong. Grissom isn't afraid of me. You're close though."

Amelia squints and works it out in her mind by talking her way through it. "He's afraid of something else? Something he only encounters when he's with you…"

"He's a complex man. He's lived a very controlled life."

"Controlled by who… Or what?

"Grissom has worked very hard to build the life he has. His bonds are self-imposed."

"You're saying he controls himself?"

Heather nods slowly. "With nearly absolute rigidity."

Amelia chuckles softly. "And then you come along and whisper in his ear; making him want to throw off all those self-imposed bonds, right onto a roaring bonfire and dance naked under a full moon. To hell with the hard earned life he's built so carefully. To hell with self-control, and the devil be damned. He's not afraid of you. He's afraid of himself when he's with you."

"Now you've got it."

"But he wants to be with you too. Man; that has got to be frustrating… For both of you."

Heather sighs. "Our relationship has certainly hit a few bumps over the years. Some big ones."

"What keeps the connection so strong? Without fuel, even a raging inferno will die down eventually."

There's more to us than just our physical attraction for one another. He's an equal. I can sit and talk to him indefinitely, and not get bored… Not even for a minute. The truth is, most men bore me."

"But not him?"

"Not even once. I've been content in his presence, intrigued, educated, aroused, angry, furious, confused, disappointed, devastated, surprised and even happy… But I've never once been bored."

Amelia tilts her head to one side and stares at the woman before her for a good twenty seconds before she speaks again. "I think you forgot one, Heather."

"Have I?"

Amelia's next words are not an accusation, just a quietly spoken simple statement of fact. "You're in love with him."

Heather bows her head almost undetectable; just a slight lowering of the chin. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, then squares her shoulders and lifts her eyes once more. She offers her young new friend a soft smile. "Amelia, that is something I try very hard not to think about. "

Amelia smiles and picks pepperoni off of her slice of pizza; pulling warm strings of mozzarella along with it. She pops the morsel into her mouth, chews and swallows before she whispers very quietly "Too late!"

Heather's shoulders tremble ever so slightly with silent laughter. "You're right about that. It's been too late for quite some time now."

"Does he know?"

"That's doubtful. I certainly haven't told him."

"Maybe you should. Maybe you two should give it another go."

Heather shakes her head. "First, if I did tell him, I'm not certain I would like his response. Second, and far more importantly, he has someone."

"So what are you going to do about your feelings?"

"Nothing. Just because I have them doesn't mean I have to act on them."

"Does she love him?"

Heather lifts one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug and her next words are nearly inaudible. "I certainly hope so."

Amelia squints. "You do?"

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because he's headed for a fall, and when he falls he's going to go running to her."

"A fall?"

"The job he does. It's taken its toll. Plus, his relationship with her is tenuous. I believe he loves her, but it's a poor match. They aren't well suited to each other. I tried to help him about a month back. I thought I had; at least, until I saw him tonight. He stayed here for about a week. I came home from shopping on a Saturday and found the house empty and a scrap of paper on the kitchen bar with the house key I had loaned him lying on top of it. His note of farewell consisted of two words. "Thank you."

"That's it? Oh, I would have been royally pissed."

Heather shrugs. "That's Grissom. He needed a place to lay low, a place that didn't remind him of her so he could think; clear his mind, and get some sleep. I told him to stay as long as he wanted. I knew he would leave in such a fashion, I just didn't expect it quite so quickly. When he left, I assumed that he'd made an important decision; come to a resolution of sorts. Apparently I was wrong. Things don't appear to have gotten better for him in the last four months. If anything they've gotten worse. I don't know if she loves him. I do know she needs him, but that's not the same thing. I'm not certain she'll be strong enough to help him once he needs her.

"Why not?"

"Amelia, two drowning people can't save each other. They just pull each other down."

"So you two are stuck in friend mode… Maybe sexy friend mode, but nothing else?"

Heather shakes her head. First, I'm not stuck in any mode; sexy or otherwise. I am his friend. He is mine. For right now, and maybe even forever, that's all. Whether theirs a good match for not, he's tangled up with her."

"And you're not about to become the other woman." Amelia declares with certainty. "No matter how deep your feeling for him runs."

Heather shakes her head. "I won't sink to that putrid level. not even for Grissom, and not even if all the people in Hell do get their cherry flavored snow cones."


	4. Chapter 4

**The Road to Africa**

 **Chapter four**

* * *

Before 8:00 the next morning Grissom finds himself in his office dealing with the minutiae of his job. The part he likes least; the paperwork. He wants to scrap it all and go home to bed, but his team wants to be paid. He scribbles his signature on the bottom of an in-house document bound for Conrad Ecklie's office as his intuition begins to prickle; trying to alert him to something but the message is too faint, too vague, and he's too tired to care.

He drops the paperwork in his outbox, leans back, closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose; hoping he can make it home before the migraine that is looming crashes in on him; making every whisper of sound a deafening drum roll and every light, even soft candlelight, piercing. He doesn't feel pain yet, but he's learned to sense when it is coming. It's something akin to the changing of barometric pressure before a storm; one can feel the change, be aware of it, without being able to define it. He reaches into his jacket pocket and extracts the small bottle of medication; Sumatriptan. He blindly sets it on his desk in front of him; knowing he should take some now, before it gets bad. He doesn't want to. He resents the necessity.

His intuition hums again; this time more strongly than before and he becomes aware that he is being watched. He stays as he is; trying to sort out the exact nature of the message his tired psyche is trying to send him. Yes, he is being watched, but the presence he senses is not a malevolent one. It's not entirely benign either.

Growing tired of the argument within his own mind, he lifts his head and opens his eyes to find Heather Kessler leaning provocatively against his office door frame; black heels, charcoal gray pants, and the matching lightweight sleeveless sweater clings to her in all the right places. He also finds the barest hint of a smile on her lips and concern in her eyes.

Well, that answers one question. No wonder he couldn't decide, malevolent or benign; neither one truly fits her. He smiles.

"Good morning Heather."

"Good morning Gil. May I come in?"

"Yes, please." He straightens up in his chair, belatedly adding "Don't mind Billy."

She crosses the threshold; an unspoken question in her eyes until the motion sensor in his Bigmouth Billy Bass mounted over the door is tripped and Billy sings out, "Take me to the river! Wash me on the water."

She stops mid-stride and spins around, glancing upward; eyeing the contraption with an odd mixture of surprise and curiosity. When, after a beat, she looks his way again; she smiles more broadly, points, and announces, "That's a watchdog."

She begins to take in her surroundings as he nods. "Yes, he is."

She wanders to the nearest of the shelves that houses his collection of insects, spiders, experiments, the memorabilia, books, the modest number of accolades, and all the things that most people would consider obscurities. While he watches her browse; studying her reaction to all that she sees, she asks. "Do the things in this office need watching over?

"I need watching over."

She raises an eyebrow. "Do you?"

"When I'm in here, yes. I have a tendency to become so engrossed in whatever I'm working on that I don't hear people approach. I forget the door is open, and look up to find people standing mere inches away. Most people don't wait politely at the door for me to notice them."

Hmm… She offers him the slightest nod of her head as she continues to browse the shelves, moving slowly as if she's shopping for knickknacks. She tilts her head to the side, looks at the irradiated fetal pig in a jar and doesn't quite frown. "Miss Piggy?"

"No. That's Fred." He points to another specimen. "That's Ethel over there. She has her own jar."

Heather nods again, and almost two quietly to be heard, she muses. "Everything in its place." She glances at the miniature replica of a grocery store and passes it by. A facial reconstruction catches her attention and she looks to Grissom to answer her unspoken questions.

"Dr. Terry Miller did that for me so we could identify someone who was too badly decomposed to be identified any other way."

Heather gently caresses the cheek of the young man represented in clay. "She does beautiful work. He had Down's Syndrome."

"Yes, she does and yes, he did, but I never said she was a woman… Or were you already familiar with her work?"

Heather shakes her head. "You mentioned her first. You said she did this for you. The case may have its place in your memory, but she holds the more prominent place. The case, even the identity of the victim, are secondary. I doubt very sincerely that you would attach such obvious sentimental value to a lump of clay, albeit a well formed lump of clay, if Terry were short for Terence as opposed to Teresa."

He says nothing, only tips his head to one side and shrugs as if to say, "You've got me there."

She continues her perusal at her own leisurely pace. "I like the mounted butterflies. They're austere but beautiful." She picks up, and gently blows a light accumulation of dust off of his framed honorary certificate of ownership of Roy Rogers' famous horse, Trigger. When she realizes what it is, she smiles sweetly and, with great care, returns it to its proper place.

He squints and there is a gentle element of surprise in his voice when he says, "You like that."

She nods as she walks over, picks up a stack of file folders from one of his guest chairs, places it carefully on the corner of his desk, and then sits down in the place she just cleared for herself amongst all of his things. "Is there some reason I shouldn't?

"I wrote a letter asking for one of those when I was child. I lost it. But last year I wrote a second letter, asking for a replacement. That's it. When it arrived, Sara gave me an odd look. I think she thinks it's childish."

Heather sits quietly for a moment; obviously thinking. "Did she have a difficult childhood?"

He nods. "She did."

"So she pushes away objects that remind her of her own childhood. She is repelled by them. Therefore, she has no frame of reference for why others choose to keep similar things. Perhaps it's easier for her to explain her lack of desire for such things by labeling them as childish."

He nods again. "And what about you. What childhood memorabilia do you keep?"

"I have a doll that I've had since I was six years old. It was early December when my parents first learned of my diabetes. Mom had put me down for a nap, and later, when she tried to wake me, she couldn't. I'd slipped into a coma. I woke up in the hospital days later confused and frightened, but I made fast friends with the little girl in the next bed. That year for Christmas my grandmother bought both of us matching dolls. I named mine Libby, after her. She named hers Heather. After we got the diabetes under control, I lost track of her. I only saw her during those times when we were both at the hospital or the doctor's office. Our time together was brief, fleeting really, but I suppose she had a rather profound impact on me. I like to think she's still out there somewhere, maybe she even still has her doll tucked away in a special place."

"She cast a soft light in what I'm sure must've been a very dark time for you."

"Yes, she did."

They sit for several seconds watching each other in silence before he quietly prompts, "You didn't come by for a walk down memory lane…"

"No. I came by because I'm concerned about you. You look… Worn down Gil. I thought that when you left my house a month ago things would get better for you. They obviously haven't." She leans forward in her seat, picks up the pill bottle on his desk and examines its label before continuing. "Is this a new development?"

"It isn't. It's an old annoyance that's come back to haunt me recently."

"That's not good."

"No, it's not. Heather… I'm tired. I'm just so damn tired."

Instinctively knowing that he needs more than just a good night's sleep, she gestures to the room around them. "Of this?"

He nods; bowing his head almost imperceptibly as if his fatigue is something to be ashamed of.

"Maybe it's time to do something else. Close up shop, find a new calling."

For the first time since her arrival, she watches his mouth stretch to a wide smile. "Says the retired dominatrix turned college student?"

She shrugs undaunted. "Laugh if you want. And just so you know…" She pauses to give him a sassy smile. "There is no such thing as a retired dominatrix. There are those who may no longer be gainfully employed, but once a dominatrix, always a dominatrix."

"Oh, I'm not laughing; I promise. At least, not you anyway, but I don't know Heather; I think I'm too old to start over again."

She does laugh, and to him it sounds like soft gentle music. "Gil, who told you that lie?"

When he raises an eyebrow she continues, "You're just tired, that's all. So tired you can't see the benefit that a different profession might bring to you. Don't think of it as starting over. You don't have to tear down everything you've built and start from scratch. You don't even necessarily have to go back to school. You can take everything you've accumulated thus far, all your knowledge, all your skill, and simply pick a new direction in which to take it. You're a renowned entomologist, but just because you are, doesn't mean you have to spend nearly all your nights at crime scenes seeing victims in the worst moments of their lives. Give yourself permission to explore other avenues."

"It's not that easy Heather."

"Why not? Who's going to fault you? The victims? Most of them don't even know you're here. They're gone before you even arrive at the scene. Your team? Who's in a better position to understand the desire to leave; a desire to do something less traumatic with your life? Or are you going to fault yourself? Why? Because you stopped using your intellect to service the citizens of Las Vegas? So don't stop, just find a different way to do it… Preferably one that won't give you migraines." She holds up the pill bottle still in her hand; lending weight to her words.

Actually… I've been thinking about taking a leave of absence. Maybe just a vacation. I don't know for sure. I'm waiting on some callbacks."

She shrugs. "Call it a vacation if you need to… Just do something before you crash and burn."

He nods as she leans forward once more, places the pill bottle in his hand and gently curls his fingers around it.

"Those callbacks you're waiting on, is Sara one of them?"

"She is. I don't know if she'll answer." He shrugs. "I guess I'll have to wait and see."

"Where is she now?"

"According to her last e-mail, Costa Rica."

She tilts her head to the side and smiles. "A tropical getaway might do you a world of good."

She stands up, obviously ready to leave and he comes to his feet as well. She points to the bottle she's just placed in his hand. "Are you okay to drive yourself home?"

He nods. "It hasn't hit me yet. I'm not sure it's going to now."

She nods and turns for the door.

Trying to stall her, he comes around the corner of his desk. With no plan at all he says, "Heather?"

She turns again; waiting for more. When he says nothing, she raises an eyebrow. "Yes Gil?"

He shrugs and then blurts out, "I'm hungry."

She tilts her head; studying him and offers him a smile so provocative that his pulse misses a beat. "Would you care to elaborate on that statement Mr. Grissom, or shall I just start making educated suppositions regarding your appetites."

He chuckles. "No… I may be doing a very poor job of it, but I'm asking you to join me for breakfast."

She gives him a slight nod and reins herself in a bit. "I would love to, but I'm afraid I must decline. I'm on my way to pick up Allison for the day."

It's impossible for him not to notice the note of contentment in her voice. "How is that going?"

She holds her right elbow out away from her body. "Come on, you can walk me out."

He takes her arm and flicks out the lights as they pass through the door of his office with her a ½ step ahead. In the corridor outside his office, she says. "It's progressive. Jerome has agreed to joint custody in spite of the fact that… Well… There's part of him that hates me. Rightfully so I suppose. But he keeps a lid on it for Allison's sake. He's decided that she needs me. Truth is, he needs me too. Although, he'll die a brutal death before he admits it."

Grissom raises an eyebrow. "He needs you?"

She chuckles softly. "Let's just say he finds single grand-parenthood a bit challenging at times. He called me one morning last week, didn't even bother with hello. As soon as I answered, he growled into the phone, 'Get over here right now!' Allison was having a hair raising temper tantrum because he wouldn't let her wear her bathing suit and fairy wings to day care. I could hear her crying in the background and he informed me 'You have got to come deal with her Heather. I'm at my wits end. Papa needs a timeout… Or else I'm going to strangle her!"

He squints. "Obviously, if you're picking her up this morning, she made it to day care alive?"

"She did."

"And what was she wearing?"

"Her bathing suit and fairy wings… with a very pretty dress in between the two."

"Ahh… The art of compromise."

"It saves relationships every day."


	5. Chapter 5

**The Road to Africa**

 **Chapter five**

 **Author's note: Finally, Fanfiction site has been down for three days; no server available! I've been waiting impatiently to post this.**

First things first, I've made very minor changes to chapters previously written. It's just come to my attention that my timing is slightly off. According to an episode guide, by February of 2009 Gil was already in Costa Rica, so I'll shuffle the dates of this story around a bit to get it right. You don't have to read chapters one through four over again, unless you want to. I'm not changing the body of the story, just the timeline.

Also, I usually prefer to write in present tense as opposed past tense, and I know it's generally considered bad form to switch in the middle, of a story but there is are parts of the following chapter that were just easier told in the past tense. Please indulge me. My goal with this chapter was to create a written montage; a series of written snapshots, if you will, in order to tell a portion of this story that occurs over several years' time in a fairly short amount of space. I hope you like it.

Lastly, I have to send out a written high five to Jorja Fox. Anybody who's read any of my work pertaining to CSI already knows how I feel about Sara. It doesn't need repeating. However, I have to say I just watched 'The Two Mrs. Grissoms' for research purposes. I stopped watching CSI on a regular basis when William Petersen left show. I have seen the episode before, but I must not have been paying close attention to it. I now have to say; it was a very good episode. First of all, somewhere along the way Sara matured quite a lot. In this episode, I didn't find her nearly as prickly as I have in the past. Maybe married life was beneficial to her. Secondly, she truly was the star of the episode.

I felt terrible for her! She really was catching it from all sides. From Grissom's ex-lover, Julia, who really was only too happy to throw that fact in her face. Also from Nick Stokes, (George Eads) who very plainly pointed out that her mother-in-law didn't seem to like her very much, "But hey, she seems to like me!" A blow which he softened with that Texas boy smile of his. (He really is from Texas y'all. I'd recognize that accent anywhere.) And of course, from David Hodges (Wallace Langham) the character we all affectionately love to hate. I swear, I groan every time the man opens his mouth. He just had to stick it to Sara with his callous comments about Grissom and his predilections for "sexually adventurous" women; not failing to mention Heather of course, who still seems to be a thorn in Sara's side, even though I've never seen her be anything less than cordial to Sara. And finally, Gil's mother, Betty, really tried to rake her over the coals. A good friend once tell me that she hated the episode because she felt that Sara should've been first to apologize to the woman. Well, as far as I saw Sara had absolutely nothing to apologize for. She showed up, and she did her job without bias. In the face of everything they put her through; I thought she did a stellar job. I'm not about to become a GSR fan, but I'm not certain I would've been half as graceful under such pressure. I found it very difficult to relate to the senior Mrs. Grissom. She obviously has her boy up on a very tall pedestal. Case in point, Gilbert College? Me thinks the apron strings may be tied a bit too tight! Let him go Mom. He's what, 50 something? I mean, don't get me wrong, my mama loves me more than anybody else does on the face of this entire planet, but she'll also be the very first person in line to point out my faults and failures! As much as I love him, Grissom has many, but you wouldn't know it by his mother. Anyhow, what I'm trying to say is, (and I hope it doesn't sound too condescending) bravo Sara, nicely done. I'm proud of you!

* * *

Heather's last class before college let out for the holidays was on Friday, December 18. It had been eleven days since the discovery of the young man in the parking lot. She arrived home shortly before dinner and was busy putting groceries away while she mentally made last minute plans for her annual holiday party. Who to invite, what to serve, should she bother with a theme, or just go the classic route… While she mused and put away produce the cell phone in her hip pocket vibrated twice briefly; signaling a missed call. She juggled a head of lettuce while opening the refrigerator door and fishing the device from its pocket. She laid it on the counter and retrieved the incoming message. No hello, no formal greeting at all; just a familiar tired voice; his voice…

 _It's me. We got the guy. Just thought you'd wanna know. Tried to call your classmate. She didn't pick up. Pass on the message for me… Gotta go, it's been crazy here today. If I don't talk you before then, Merry Christmas._

She smiled and said out loud to her otherwise empty kitchen, "Merry Christmas to you too."

Since the night they were properly introduced, she'd been keeping a discreet eye on Amelia Rose. The girl was focused, and determined but also lonely, and although Heather was more than grateful for his message, it also left her a bit melancholy. She made a snap decision to pick up the phone and see if the girl had plans for the holiday. If not, she would add her name to the guest list.

On Monday, December 28, Grissom found himself in his office opening mail, wishing he could toss it all in the circular file, with the exception of a square Manila envelope that caught his attention or rather the return address and the sender's handwriting caught his attention. He opened the envelope with extreme care and found a five by seven photograph turned face down. Her elegant handwritten note to him on the back of the photo read;

 _"_ _You missed a scintillating party. I was disappointed you couldn't be here, but I hope Santa brought you all you wanted anyway."_

Not knowing what exactly to expect, but certain it would be something at least mildly scandalous, Grissom turned the photograph over, threw back his head and laughed until there was moisture in the corners of his eyes.

In the photograph, young men and women with rock hard nubile bodies, obviously some of her former employees, were in costume. Most of the women in 18th century formal attire complete with bustles and binding corsets while most of the men were in male slave gear, naked from the waist up and very scantily clad in tight black leather from the waist down.

Heather, herself was perched lightly on the knee of one such gentleman and wearing a slinky modern day gown of Christmas red with s dangerously low cut bodice and a slit up the left side of the skirt all the way from her matching stilettos to her supple upper thigh.

Passing by in the hallway, Catherine Willows heard her supervisor and friend obviously amused by something so she poked her head in the door and raised an eyebrow giving him a slightly worried look when she realized he was alone in the room. In response, he wiggled his index finger; beckoning in a 'come here' gesture and said, "Close the door."

Glancing over her shoulder as she complied to make certain no one else was about to join them, she inquired in her usual way with equal parts spunk and sass, "What's up? Did you get a new issue of Entomology Weekly?"

The look he gave her was somewhere between a smile and a grimace. "There is no such publication." He said seriously.

"Whatever! You know what I mean. Are you going to tell me why you're sitting in here in the dark, alone, laughing like a loon, or should I just call Brass and tell him to hunt down a straight-jacket?"

In silent reply, he held the photograph out backside up for her to read the message written there first.

She did, and when she turned the photograph over, her pretty smile stretched ear to ear. "Aww man!" She cried out as if she'd been deprived of something. "Now that's one Christmas party I would've actually liked to have been invited to! She certainly had more fun than we did at the office shindig. Looks like the lady was back in her domain at least for one night… Or wait… Wasn't it… her dominion?"

Grissom nodded. "Want me to see if I can wrangle you an invitation to next year's party?"

The strawberry blonde nodded enthusiastically and gave him back his photo. As she departed his office on her way to her original destination, she tossed back over her shoulder, "As long as corsets are optional, yes. Tell her I'm not wearing any article of clothing made with whale bones."

He called after her, "Catherine, corsets haven't been made with the whalebone since…"

"She cut him off. "Yeah, yeah… Just tell her!"

On January 20, 2009, Heather returned home from a shopping trip. Juggling a heavy shopping bag and Alison, who was perched on her right hip, she opened her mailbox to find a postcard. There was a picture of a tropical rainforest on the front and the salutation, "Greetings from Costa Rica!" On the opposite side she found a brief message written in his familiar scrawl…

 _"_ _Taking your advice. Here's to closing up shop, and finding a new calling. The plane just landed. Wish me luck!"_

She smiled sadly, and even though his news that brought with it a searing tightness in her chest that never quite left her in the next few years to come, later that night, at her first convenience, she returned his correspondence with one of her own in which she extended her sincere wish that he find all he could possibly need or want.

Their correspondence went on in such a fashion sporadically over the next five years. She knew his e-mail address and occasionally would send correspondence via that method, but he seemed to prefer snail mail. So, often enough, she would sit down, write a letter, and hope it got to the right place. Every once in a while, she'd get a postcard containing at most 30 words. Brief greetings from some new place; some within the continental U.S. and some from abroad. She never knew he was in a new place until she'd gotten a letter or postcard with some new postmark on it.

He'd tell her what he was working on; always passionately. He would tell her what he missed most about home, and what he liked best about being wherever he was. He would write of exotic places with breathtaking descriptions.

More than once she marveled at how such a socially awkward man could be so prolific… That is, when he chose to be, of course. Obviously, he was more comfortable with the written word than face to face communication.

He wrote sending belated birthday wishes. Merry Christmas was always either a week early or a week late.

She learned more than she ever thought possible about a variety of topics ranging from, anthropology, to archaeology, and botany to zoology.

He would mention Sara from time to time, but he seemed to prefer his privacy where she was concerned, and Heather let him have it. Though, he never actually said they'd gotten married, she felt certain of it. It was confirmed when, one day, she got a postcard with nothing more than a web address written on the backside of it. She smiled and sat down her first free moment in the day to watch what turned out to be a web-based documentary that he'd been asked to co-host with some fellow scientists and while watching she noticed the his wedding ring.

She filled her letters with news of new accomplishments, discreet mention of patients whom she would eventually treat, and of course, news of her granddaughter.

In Autumn of 2010 she sent him a copy of her graduation announcement along with an invitation to attend commencement ceremonies if he were available to do so. He did not attend, but that afternoon during the midst of her celebrations, Amelia approached from behind and whispered discreetly in her ear while she was talking with another guest, "You've got mail."

She smiled and turned to squeeze the young woman's shoulders affectionately, "Just put it on the table in the front hall. I'll get to it eventually."

A teasing light glimmered in Amelia's eyes. She jiggled a small square parcel wrapped in brown paper for affect, and asked in a quiet singsong voice, "Are you sure? It's a package… From Peru."

Heather politely disentangled herself from conversation with her guests, took her young friend by the hand and pulled her away to the privacy of her upstairs office. Once there, she found his brief note of congratulations inside the box that contained a small clay pot with unusual hieroglyphics edged into it. She carefully set the pot down, and was pleased to find information about its origins tucked discreetly into the bottom of the box.

While she read, Amelia picked the pot up and looked it over curiously. When Heather looked up from her reading, her body trembling with quiet laughter, she found a look of displeasure on her friend's face.

"He sent you a small, ugly piece of pottery with crude suggestive hieroglyphics on it."

Heather threw back her head and laughed boisterously as much at what she'd read as at the sour look on the young woman's face.

"You just don't understand she choked out between bouts of laughter. It's a joke. It's a replica of a Mayan sex pot. The originals are priceless artifacts kept only in museums, or by the insanely wealthy. She handed over the information on the item and waited as Amelia read.

When she had completed her reading, Amelia said, "Okay, so he sent you a sex pot. I get that it's kind of funny. It'll be an interesting conversation piece to keep in your office, Dr. Kessler; especially given your specialty, but I'll bet you his wife doesn't find it quite so amusing."

Heather gave this serious thought for all of about 30 seconds. Were they on the precipice of crossing some line? Then she shrugged as she shook her head. "If it had come from any man but him, I would say his wife might have cause to worry. But trust me, Grissom isn't suggesting anything. He's just sharing an off color joke with a newly licensed and fully accredited sex therapist. It's a companion piece meant to go along with my newly framed Ph.D."

Amelia flashed a smile of uncertainty. "Okay, if you say so…" As she left the room, she whispered quietly over her shoulder, "But I still think it's ugly."

Heather threw the package's brown paper wrapping at her, catching her just below the shoulder as she stepped over the threshold.

A few months later, she opened her office door to find Dr. Ray Langston and Sara Sidle had come to call in regards to her patient, Iona Vaci. She greeted them both warmly. Sara was polite on the surface but bristled underneath, where Langston was genuinely cordial. The woman seemed aggrieved to find that Heather knew anything at all about the Moche people of Peru, and possibly exasperated with her husband over other matters as well. Heather worried that perhaps Sara didn't know until the moment they had come knocking of any correspondence that had taken place between Heather and her husband. However, after some careful consideration, she set her concerns aside. They weren't doing anything wrong, and what he did, or did not, share with his wife was not really any of her business. Heather also liked Ray Langston instantly; finding him a deeply troubled but forthright and honest man.

In the winter of 2013, she wrote to tell Grissom that she'd been invited to guest lecture at a symposium scheduled for Summer of the following year on the roles of domination and submission. He sent his heartfelt congratulations; although the rest of his letter concerned her. Something in his words was strained, but he gave no indication of what was troubling him.

Eventually, she lost track of exactly when, he wrote briefly of his separation from Sara. Heather had the distinct impression that it had been over for far longer than his words indicated, but having been through a divorce herself, she would not complain that he had not written sooner. Of course, it would take him time to process; time to decide how he felt about it. It would also take him even longer to tell people about it. He was genuinely saddened by what would be the end of their marriage, but he didn't seem to doubt that it was the right move for them. She wrote offering her heartfelt condolences.

They settled into a quiet routine. His letters came more frequently, but not that much more frequently. She'd get three, on average, in a six month period, where she used to get two. In time, she noticed an improvement in his mood; a subtle change in his demeanor that was evident even in written form.

The following June, when nearing the end of her lecture, she looked up and momentarily forgot where she was as well as what topic she was speaking on when she caught sight of him.

He was standing in the very back of her jam packed, standing room only, hotel lecture hall. He stood leaning against a wall near an exit, his weight on one foot, the sole of the other braced against the wall behind him as though he had come in at the last possible moment and avoided moving any further into the room than where he stood for fear of disturbing anyone.

He was tan, maybe a little older, but leaner; in better shape than when last she saw him. As he made a horizontal circling motion in the air with his right index finger, silently encouraging her to continue with her speech, his blue eyes sparkled with new light. A light she had never encountered in them before.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** If you read it, please leave a review. It feeds the muse!


	6. Chapter 6

**The Road to Africa**

 **Chapter Six**

 **Author's note:** I know this chapter is short. There was going to be more. But I had to find a place to break away. The rest of it is buzzing around inside my head, but I'm having allergy trouble and about 45 minutes ago I gave up the fight and took a Benadryl. It is taking affect, which means I'm very sleepy. I'm afraid if I kept going, it wouldn't make any sense. So, I'm going to bed now. In about 10 minutes I'm going to be unconscious. More soon. I promise. If you read, please review. I like hearing from y'all.

* * *

When Heather's lecture is over Grissom hangs back allowing others to make their way to the front for a chance to speak with her. Sensing his intent to be the last in line, she offers him a smile as she patiently listens to the platitudes offered by an over-eager lecture attendant. As he waits for the crowd to dissipate, Grissom notices he's not the only one at the back of the room. A man with a lion's mane of thick white hair n perhaps his mid-seventies or early eighties waits for his moment alone with her as well, at least until a sour faced woman in her late forties pushes her way through the departing crowd and hisses impatiently "Daddy, will you come on please!"

"A little patience please, Patricia. I want a word with the good doctor."

"Honestly Daddy, must you!"

"Obviously torn between his desire for a word alone with Heather, and he is equal desire to leave before his daughter can cause a scene, the elderly gentleman signals his departure with a thumbs up sign. He mouths the words, "You did good Sweetheart, before blowing a kiss in Heather's direction. Grissom watches, intrigued, as Heather returns the gesture, blowing her own kiss in return, and he muses silently, _"She must know him well."_

It takes more than 25 minutes for the crowd to thin from the lecture hall's maximum occupancy to just four; Grissom, Heather and two young women in their thirties. One of them, a skinny redhead, looks as if she might go on talking forever, but thankfully her rosy cheeked blond companion says, "Come on Janine. We've taken up enough of her time. Besides, the man back there with the beautiful blue eyes has been waiting patiently since the lecture ended. I think it's his turn now."

The skinny redhead leaves reluctantly; her blond friend pulling her by the hand and stopping unenthusiastically so the redhead can collect the handbag she left sitting in her empty seat.

When at last they are alone in the room, Heather approaches slowly with force calm, almost as though she's restraining herself, forcing herself not to break into a run. The corners of her mouth twitch upward in the smile he remembers; like the sublimely satisfied cat who swallowed the canary.

"Hi." He says quietly and is surprised, but not displeased, when she wraps her arms around him in a warm embrace.

Her quiet laughter is musical when she returns his simple greeting, "Hi"

For a long moment, she holds him and doesn't let go so, he breathes in the light sweet scent of her; Japanese cherry blossom. Although, he doesn't know if it's her shampoo, soap, or perhaps a skin cream that is so intoxicating. " Well, I guess you missed me."

He feels her nod, and she kisses his cheek lightly before finally releasing him from the embrace. "It's good to see you. I was beginning to think you might never return."

He grins. "Here I am… In the flesh."

She gives him a bright smile. "I'll say. You look well. Traveling the world must agree with you."

"That's funny. I thought I looked road weary."

She gives him the once over; making a closer inspection now that there isn't an entire lecture hall between the two of them. "Not at all. A little rumpled maybe, but we all look that way after spending several hours on a transatlantic flight. What did you do; come straight from the airport? I like the glasses, the khakis and hiking boots by the way, they suit you well. Sort of ..." She pauses; choosing her next words thoughtfully, "Renowned scientist meets Indiana Jones"

He shrugs away the compliment. "I did, yes."

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming… or… haven't I gotten your last postcard yet?"

He shakes his head and extracts said postcard from the pocket of his vest. He hands it over and shrugs. "I wrote it but, then didn't bother to send it. I didn't know I was coming home for sure until four days ago. I would've gotten here before it did so…" He grins. "I thought I'd hand deliver it instead."

She glances at the front of the postcard, one from Brazil, his most recent port of call and flips it over to find only two words scrawled on the back. "Homeward bound."

She smiles happily.

"What?"

"I don't think I've known anyone else who could say so much in so few words. Grissom, fifteen words on the back of a postcard hastily jotted as you're hurrying from one post to the next, and I feel as though I've had an entire conversation with you."

"That's just because you know me Heather. Other people who have seen me far more often than you in the last six years, still find me unsociable and taciturn.

She sighs, and links her arm in his. "I need some lunch. Can you join me?

He nods agreeably. "I can. Is the hotel restaurant any good?"

She shrugs. "Don't know. Let's find out together. I want to hear all about your adventures. Start with leaving Las Vegas, and don't stop until you've come full circle."

He chuckles. "Heather you already know most of it. I sent letters. I know you read them. I got your responses."

"That doesn't matter Gil. Yes, I read every word, but now I want to listen to you tell the story."


	7. Chapter 7

**The Road to Africa**

 **Chapter Seven**

They sit across from each other at a small table for two in a discreet corner of the hotel restaurant; out of the main flow of traffic. That is, if there were any traffic to speak of. The lunch rush is over and the dinner rush is still a few hours away. They are among the few patrons who are dining at this time of the afternoon, and the others who are, are far enough away to neither disturb, nor be disturbed by the two old familiar friends catching up with one another.

A local band is setting up in another quiet corner of the room; tuning instruments, playing unobtrusively and singing softly, in preparation for live entertainment that will be provided later in the evening.

While waiting for food and sipping coffee Heather listens to Grissom talk. It took him a few minutes to truly relax and get into the conversation, but now he's lost in the retelling of what proves to be a somewhat comical event, in spite of the fact that it came about at the expense of a certain, terribly arachnophobic, unfortunate young grad student.

"I'm telling you Heather, these two were there with the same group, a bunch of anthropology students who were all over-eager to cut their teeth on their first official discovery, but much to his displeasure, they certainly were not together. The only time the young lady paid him any attention at all is when she was irritated with him. At first, I think it was unintentional, but by the middle of our trip, I think he was deliberately provoking her just to get her to talk to him."

Engaged in the conversation, Heather tilts her head to the side and smiles ruefully. "Not the best way to go about things; at least, not with most females."

Grissom shakes his head. "This kid was smart. I'm talking Mensa level IQ, but it was all book-smarts, no common sense whatsoever. People call me socially awkward. This kid was stunted. The last time I saw a guy present a spider to a girl in hopes of impressing her, I was 11. This guy is in his twenties. So, there we are sitting around after dinner one night and he starts talking to me about Phoneurtria, more commonly known as the Brazilian walking spider which, by the way, are highly venomous to humans. Anyway, this guy's starts going on about spiders and I look across the table and realize that the one he's pining for is clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. She stops eating, she's getting more pale by the minute. I try to change the subject, but this kid, Jace, is determined not to allow that. We've been there long enough, he's discovered I'm the resident bug guy and he's not letting up. Meanwhile poor Rebecca has lifted her feet off the floor and tucked them under herself. A fly lands on her arm and she jumps half out of her skin. He's watching her, the whole time he's talking to me, and it's more than obvious the young lady's uncomfortable. Eventually, she gets itchy enough to get up and leave the table. What does he do, he follows her. Halfway across camp we all can hear him going on about his new fascination with spiders; particularly those that are indigenous to the area. Somehow, she managed to get rid of him, and to amuse himself he wanders off into the trees and finds himself a Cupiennius, also part of the genus walking spider but commonly called the banana spider and frequently confused with its much more dangerous cousin. The effects of the banana spider's bite are usually mild, they are often compared to a bee sting, where the other is often deadly…" He pauses for a sip of coffee.

Heather groans quietly. "I can guess where this is going… and I hope she hurt him… badly."

The next day, we're up to our shoulders in this mass grave, trying to unearth these remains as carefully as possible and Mensa Boy decides to present this relatively harmless banana spider in nothing more secure than a paper cup. However, after listening to him go on and on about the Brazilian walking spider the night before, Rebecca comes completely unhinged, knocks the cup out of his hand, the spider goes flying, lands on her chest, and of course the poor thing is terrified, so it promptly crawls down the front of her shirt; looking for a safe place to hide. I've heard sopranos who couldn't hit the notes she hit that day. One second she's dancing in place. The next, she's running circles around me. Me, I'm trying to get her to be still, trying to tell her that everything is okay, which is totally pointless because she can't even hear me. Of course, she's shrieking, 'Get it off me! Get it off me!' and undressing as fast as she possibly can."

As their server brings their meal, and then departs quietly, Heather covers her mouth and does the best she can to contain quiet laughter. Grissom watches her shoulders tremble slightly as she apologizes, "I'm sorry, it's not funny… but it's hilarious. I can just imagine the look on your face! Oh… That poor girl! Did you manage to stop her before she was nude from the waist up?"

He nods. "But barely. I gave her my vest, and just in the nick of time too. One of the worst moments of her life, it was just seconds away from winding up on YouTube… Kids and their cell phones. She's a bright girl, and just starting out. That stupid prank could've ruined her professionally."

Heather closes her eyes, and her face goes slack as she tries to imagine the unending humiliation such a moment might cause. "It's a shame really. According to a scientific study I've read, human beings are born with only two fears. The fear of being cold…"

He nods, finishing the thought for her as she pauses to bite into a forkful of pasta with a heavily fragrant marinara sauce. "… and the fear of falling."

She nods and talks behind her napkin, "That's a sobering thought. If that's true, then that means all the rest of our fears…"

"Are learned. Conditioned responses." The conversation volleys again.

"Makes you wonder; who or what gave this girl a pathological fear of eight legged creatures. The answer could be fairly simple or, not as obvious as you might think."

"I'm happy to report that Rebecca has calmed down… some." He butters garlic bread as he talks. She still doesn't like spiders. She probably never will, but by the time I left, they weren't sending her into hysterics anymore."

"Oh… Did she get bitten that day?"

He nods again. "At least once."

"She was bitten, her fear reached critical mass… and she lived. So… maybe spiders aren't as bad as she originally thought… at least not all of them. Still, a cruel way to have to face one's fears though. And what about the young man? Did he survive? Or was there a fresh body added to the site?"

"She didn't kill him, but after she recovered her wits, he probably wished she had. He was the next person to sing soprano that day."

Heather nods as she pushes her salad around with her fork and says quietly; almost inaudibly, "Good for her."

"How's Allison doing?"

In reply, Heather shakes her head but smiles happily, "She's 10; going on 30. Trying way too hard to grow up way too fast, but it's all normal. Her mother went through the same thing at a similar age; about a year later than her if I recall correctly. She's currently furious because her grandfather won't let her get a belly button ring, and I won't let her take her cell phone to school. She and Jerome are in a perpetual state of battle. Neither one of them can see that they are just like the other."

"And how are you?"

She pauses thoughtfully. "Let's see. It's been awhile since anybody asked me that question Gil. I'm busy; maybe too busy, but I'm good… When I'm not refereeing between Allison and her grandfather, I'm seeing patients, or helping Amelia get settled. She got her own apartment; no more roommates. No more living with her emotionally unstable mother. She started her clinical rotation with pediatric cancer patients."

"Yes, I remember you mentioning something about her mother's instability in one of your letters."

Heather nods. "She's an improperly medicated, rapid cycling bipolar patient. Amelia seems to have taken all her energy and passion for helping people and put it into this new job. Which is a great deal more healthy for her than spending all of her time trying to cope with her mother; a woman who does not want to be saved. She will do absolutely nothing to help herself, and it breaks Amelia's heart."

"Does Amelia still remind you of Zoe?"

Heather shrugs. "In quiet, subtle ways, yes, but not as much as she used too. She's her own person. That night, at the college, I think Zoe was just on my mind. I was missing her. I still do. Always will. It's not really better now. It's just different. Missing her… It's softer, quieter; not as sharp and raw as it used to be. There's still a hole there, but I've learned to acknowledge it, instead of trying to hide from it or avoid it. If I try to do that, I wind up someplace that's not at all good… But it's been awhile since I've had one of those moments."

He turns his hand palm up on the table and she places hers in it without thought or hesitation.

"I'm glad." He says quietly as he caresses the back of her hand with the pad of his thumb.

When he raises an eyebrow in response to the slight catch in her breathing, she tries to wave his unspoken question aside. However, before she can form the words, she senses a familiar presence.

They both realize they are no longer alone in their quiet little corner of the room an instant before a very charismatic male voice says to Heather in a stage whisper, "I managed to give the warden the slip. Quick, before she hunts me down, dance with me Gorgeous!"

Grissom's already raised eyebrow climbs a fraction of an inch higher when Heather rests her head against the lowered shoulder of the tall, elderly man stooping to be heard beside her, and she laughs merrily as she reaches over and affectionately runs her fingers through the lion's mane of thick white hair that falls nearly to his shoulders.

"Cal; you came back!" She says to the man who waited at the back of the lecture hall with Grissom earlier until his unhappy daughter showed up.

"Of course I came back darlin'! You didn't honestly think I was going to miss the chance to flirt with one of the finest women in all of Las Vegas."

Heather tries to give the older man a stern look, but she can't quite keep the hint of a smile off her face as she makes an introduction.

"Dr. Gil Grissom, meet Las Vegas' one and only Bruce Calvin. She swats affectionately at the hand on her shoulder and says, "Hello Cal. What's with the sweet talk? What do you want?"

Undeterred, he flashes a healthy devil may care smile and kisses her cheek. "Is there something wrong with your hearing woman; I told you… I wanna dance!"." He offers his hand. "Honor me…" He makes polite eye contact with Grissom and gives him a nod of recognition. "That is, as long as it won't offend your escort."


	8. Chapter 8

**The Road to Africa**

 **Chapter Eight**

Heather smiles and waits for an answer to Cal's question. She waits for the slightly permissive tilt of Grissom's head that can't quite be called a nod. "The choice is her own." He declares with an amiable shrug.

She smiles sweetly, places her hand in Bruce Calvin's, and rises gracefully to her feet as the older man pulls out her chair for her. Before allowing him to whisk her away to a small clearing between tables that will serve as a makeshift dance floor, she pauses to rest a gentle hand on Grissom's shoulder and whispers, "I'll be right back."

As their intent becomes known to the band members in the opposite corner of the room, the obvious band leader chuckles charismatically and decides to use the opportunity to do a mic test. "Hey you two! We haven't even gotten all the kinks worked out yet. Isn't it a little early for dancing?"

Grissom's sits back and his chair, intrigued, and forgets about his food for a few minutes when the old man replies, "Nonsense! It's never too early for dancing with a beautiful woman. Play something with some octane Sam! This place is dead! To Heather, he says, "Let's wake them up, shall we?" As they begin to dance to a lively tune Grissom does not recognize, with their spur of the moment dance floor all to themselves, his mind tries to discern the deeper identity of the old man, why his name is familiar, and what the exact nature of his relationship with Heather might be. He's almost certain that whatever the nature of their relationship, it isn't what the average person might think it was under the circumstances… Almost certain.

The few patrons and the wait staff in the restaurant stop what they're doing, and watch; some laughing, some smiling, others pointing discreetly and chatting quietly amongst themselves.

The old guy is obviously comfortable being the center of attention; and he leads Heather across their small dance floor with flair and a bold kind of elegance. Grissom can't figure out which is more impressive; the fact that the old man does this with such agility, or the fact that Heather lets him. She is clearly comfortable in his embrace. She allows him not only to lead, but to dominate the encounter; not to mention the entire room. She seems not only willing, but eager, to allow him this moment and the more Grissom tries to sort this out in his mind the more confused he becomes.

Although they're too far away for him to hear more than a single word here or there, they talk like two old cohorts as they dance. They never miss a single lively step. Not a single turn or a dip seems awkward or unfamiliar to the couple, and their quiet conversation goes on uninterrupted as if there's no need for either of them to concentrate on the dance steps, or the easy words that flow effortlessly between them.

He decides, for a moment, to stop trying to unravel the riddle in his mind and simply watch the woman across the room. As she laughs easily at something her dancing partner says, Grissom wonders silently if there will ever be a time when he isn't captured by her; intrigued, mystified, fascinated, thrilled, and delighted.

On the flight home, he had questioned whether or not she would still have the same power over him after nearly six years of separation. One look at her standing at the front of that conference room had wiped away any doubt he might've had. One look, and he knew nothing had changed. He still feels the strong gravitational pull that exists between the two of them. For the last six years, it had been slightly less intense, but back in her presence now, the full force of it both shocks and pleases him.

Across the room, Bruce Calvin whispers discreetly in her ear. "I have the distinct feeling that your companion would like very much to trade places with me."

The corners of Heather's mouth lift in the faintest of smiles. "Yes he would… and no he wouldn't. At least not here."

Calvin chuckles. "What's wrong with here? Carpe momento!"

"Too public." She answers simply.

"Too public? Darlin' there are less than a dozen people in here; and that includes the three of us."

"I know. He's not you Cal. He's not comfortable being the center of attention. He requires a bit more privacy to fully relax, open up, and be himself."

Cal raises an eyebrow as he twirls her around their small space in the room, "Just exactly how much privacy does the man need? Is he planning wicked things best left unmentioned?"

Heather glances Grissom's way briefly; just a flicker of eye contact is all she needs to have her answer. "Not at the moment. At this particular moment, he's trying to discern whether are not you're mentally planning wicked things best left unmentioned."

"Hell yes! Always am!"

"I know that Cal."

"Good! After… What's it been? Twenty-seven years? If you didn't know that, I'd be devastated! I'd be left to wonder if I taught you absolutely nothing; failed you completely. I'd be seriously disappointed."

She laughs freely. "In your apparent lack of teaching acumen or in my ignorance?"

"Both honey; both! But seriously though…"

"We're going to be serious now?" Heather raises a doubtful eyebrow.

"I know it's a dreadful bore…" He makes a sour face that slides away easily and is replaced by devilish grin. "But I promise it won't last for more than a few seconds."

"If it did, I'd be worried."

"He does know that most of my wicked thoughts don't pertain to you and that any of the ones that actually have pertained to you have never been carried out?"

"He's arguing with himself about that right now. His intuition is trying to tell him no… But he's not absolutely certain. Why? Does it matter? You usually enjoy the scandalous thoughts most people have about you and any woman in the room, including me."

He nods. "That's true. I'm always up for a good time, even if it only happens in other people's imaginations, but I'd never wish to get in the way of anything that is truly important to you."

She tilts her head to one side and studies him for a long moment as they move in time with the music before she whispers, "Who said he was important?"

Cal shakes his head. "Heather, we know each other too well. I walked in on something a few minutes ago. Something I haven't seen in you in a very, very long time. It wasn't there long… but it was there. I saw an undeniable flicker of uncertainty. Something about that man throws you off balance."

"His presence has me a little off balance. I wasn't expecting to see him today. I wasn't expecting to see him anytime soon, but here he is."

The man dancing with her watches her eyes closely; intently. "He's caught you by surprise, done something you weren't expecting, something you didn't predict; a feat most men have no hope of accomplishing."

"I haven't seen him in six years, at least not face to face. He's a friend, but more."

Another moment and Cal declares, while still eyeing her with intense scrutiny, "Well now, that's an understatement, if ever I've heard one."

She nods, because it's pointless not to. The one person who has the ability to read her like a book is standing in front of her. "Just before you came in, I put my hand in his. I guess I wasn't expecting it to still feel quite so good. It's been a long time."

"This is serious!" He repeats her words back to her in the form of a question. It's been a long time? Since him? Or just in general?"

Her chest rises and falls; a motion indicating the quiet chuckle she doesn't fully release. "Both actually, but I was referring to him."

He studies her for another long moment before the true cause of her momentary imbalance fully registers with his conscious mind. "Ahh. I see. Does he know?"

Heather shakes her head. "He's not ready to know Cal, but he's a lot closer to being ready than I ever thought he would get."

"And, if he ever does get there? Then what?

She lifts one shoulder. "Don't know. I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Is it hope or fear that steals your breath?"

"Both. I let him get too close once. He wasn't ready. When he pulled away, it wasn't really a surprise, but it hurt anyway …deeply. I don't know if we'll survive another moment like that, at least not in a way that will allow us to remain friends."

"Well then sweetheart, go slow. Keep quiet until you get your feet firmly under you; if possible. Unfortunately, when people like you and me fall… It's a long way down, and if there's nobody waiting there to catch you, the comeback is hell on Earth."


End file.
